Ben Blair

Without more words the foreman and his wife prepared for the night. The dishes were cleared away and piled in the lean-to. From either end of the room bunks, broad as beds, were let down from the wall, and the blankets that formed their linings were carefully smoothed out. Along the pole extending across the middle of the room, another set was drawn, dividing the room in two. Then the two disappeared with a simple "Good-night."

Rankin and the boy sat alone looking at each other. From across the blanket partition there came the muffled sound of movement, the impact of Graham's heavy boots, as they dropped to the floor, and then silence.

"Better go to bed, Ben," suggested Rankin, with a nod toward the bunk.

The boy at once went through the process of disrobing, and, crawling in between the blankets, pulled them up about his chin. But the blue eyes did not close. Instead, they rested steadily upon the man's face. Rankin returned the look, and then the stubby pipe left his mouth.

"What is it, Ben?"

The boy hesitated. "Am I to--to stay with you?" he asked at last.

"Yes."

For an instant the questioner seemed satisfied; then the peculiar inquiring look returned.

"Anything else, son?"

The lad hesitated longer than before. Beneath the coverings his body moved restlessly.

"Yes, sir, I want to know why nobody would come to help my mamma if she'd sent for them. She said they wouldn't."

The pipe left Rankin's mouth, his great jaws closing with an audible click.

"You wish to know--what did you say, Ben?"

The boy repeated the question.

For a minute, and then another, Rankin said nothing; then he knocked the ashes from the bowl of his brier and laid it upon the table.

"Never mind now why they wouldn't, son." He arose heavily and drew off his coat. "You'll find out for yourself quickly enough--too quickly, my boy. Now go to sleep."